The Truth In The Trailer
by Rianne
Summary: Bones and Booth, Bourbon and Desire, Temptation and Heat. Based upon the end of Double Trouble in the Panhandle. Series 4 episode 12.


This has been through many, many incarnations, before I finally gave in and wrote what I wanted!

Different to the other Bones Fics I have written. M rated.

A little canon, a little beyond. Based upon the episode Double Trouble In The Panhandle. Season 4, episode 12.

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**The Truth In The Trailer**

By _Rianne_

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_**Booth**_

The liquor bottle clunked heavily onto the cheap Formica table.

She did not look up.

It wasn't his usual brand, or any brand he had ever seen before, but he had smelt it, taken a swig, appreciated the burn and deemed it good enough.

In truth, he had deemed it the only way to face a night in such close proximity to this temptress incarnate version of Temperance Brennan.

This high-lit, made up, sultry version she somehow became when they went undercover.

Who was this woman?

Where did she come from?

It was like she let secret desires escape her.

Like a hidden vice, or an addictive hunger seeping out of her.

Curling like tendrils through her hair, glimmering on her smoky eyelids, swelling sensual lips.

Coaxing him closer.

Brought everything down to the base.

The guttural want.

Wanda & Roxy.

_Roxy_.

Roxy made him throb.

Puff out his muscles, take a beating.

God, he would do it all over again just to hear her giggle in his ear about sweat, her perfume lingering in the air around her, her words coiling him, slick with desire.

And tonight, she was a blurred dichotomy, caught between.

Not his Bones, not quite Wanda, not even Natasha.

The still of her is other too.

She is never still.

The quiet aura.

She never leaves anything unspoken.

He took another pre-emptive hit off the bottle.

Slumping into the small seat.

His limbs felt heavy, the mobile home swayed nauseatingly in response to his motion.

It was damn hot.

He slid the restrictive braces from his shoulders, letting them fall with a heavy sigh.

His waistcoat already thrown somewhere.

Dismissed a few droplets of moisture from his brow.

She still did not look up.

Considered removing his shirt entirely.

Wanting what?

A response.

Her hungry eyes to burn his skin?

Like they had as his knives had flown.

Sucking on his lower lip he eyed the amber gleam of the cheap bourbon.

Pondered the release in it.

It was late.

It was what he wanted, release, and way after midnight, with the desert temperatures soaring ever higher he teetered on the edge of giving into his wants.

All of them.

The confined space intensifying the ache.

Air throbbing with condensed heat.

This tin can on wheels, its walls slick like it was sweating, rivulets of wet condensation coating everything.

Including her.

Her skin dewy and beaded.

Glowing.

Mesmerised he watched as she drew up her legs, contorting in the inflexible chair until her feet were within reach of her fingers. Painted nails glinting, as she languidly began to work the tendons and cuboids.

He wanted her to touch him with those, red, gleaming fingertips.

Run them across his chest.

Scratch ripples and shivers through his hair.

The sound of her breath catching snapped his attention back to her face.

To her eyelids fluttering closed as she hit a good spot, and let a groan escape that had him reaching for the bottle once more.

His focus still firmly on the wet red lips, parted on a silent, but exquisite looking sigh.

He remembered what she tasted like.

Wanted those lips on him too.

Sliding their way down his body.

Leaving swipes of red in their path.

Those clever fingers with their crimson tips, working the buckle of his pants free.

As he looked down at her, waiting for her to look up so he could see the returned desire in her upturned gaze.

Before she took him in hand and those red, wet lips slid.

His body throbbed and he had to jerk his thoughts away.

Sharply dropped his gaze, surprised at his own lack of control.

His usually gentlemanly behaviour almost intuitive.

But sometimes.

He ached.

This new perspective on her drew him to even more temptation.

The curved, enhancing neckline of the satiny, deep red corset drawing his gaze to what looked like acres of temptingly soft curving skin.

Her full breaths straining her against the stiff fabric.

No doubt causing a pleasurable friction to the sensitive peaks of her nipples, the thought flexing his fingers with the want to touch.

Work partner or not, he was not blind to her appeal, to the way her outfit invited his attention down to her tiny waist, bringing forth the thought that his palms would damn near span her and meet on the other side.

Her massaging movements guiding his gaze lower, over limber thighs, seductively highlighted in fishnet tights, her actions guiding his focus back to her feet and the motion of her gentle fingers.

Working their enchantment on sinew, muscle, tendon and bone.

He knew the magic of those clever fingers.

The surprising strength as she popped his spine had caused him to roll his eyes in relief.

Those gorgeous breasts had been flush against his back, warm through his dress shirt.

Close enough to feel her nipples peak.

Stirred by the heat of his body.

To feel the increasingly unsteady beat of her heart.

He wet his lower lip and sucked sustenance from the amber bottle once again.

He was in the wrong kind of dangerous mood tonight.

She was off limits.

She deserved better than his aggressive need to give into his lust.

Despite the agonising ache of arousal she provoked.

Unwittingly?

She was at times naive, at times genius, did she have a deceptive bone in her body?

Past actions suggested that she didn't.

But the usually quite demurely dressed Dr and Anthropologist, she was not tonight.

No, tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, she was Temperance Brennan: Circus Temptress Incarnate.

And seemingly blissfully unaware of her effect.

But he was not, and he was tired, hot, defences down.

A dangerous combination.

Especially as she let out another soft moan, her fingers twisting and hitting another good spot.

He forced his attention above her neck.

Swallowing.

Her theatrical make up was still in place, a little smudged after everything that had happened, but that was not unexpected.

What was unexpected was to be refreshed with how eerily unfamiliar she looked.

He had gasped for a reason when she had initially emerged dressed as Natasha, and looking like _That_, but during the act it had helped.

Had allowed him to pretend, just for the important moments that the woman who he was aiming knives toward was someone else.

Had helped to stem the stomach clenching fear that he would hurt her.

Not that it would have been the ideal situation to be throwing knives at any one, well, maybe a criminal or two.

Just not his partner.

Even if he had once possessed the best knife throwing skills in the Rangers.

Hell, he was so good he had even got a genuine, 'Wow' from Dr. Temperance Brennan when he had demonstrated his talents for Henry Simon, the Circus owner.

But in not one of those instances had he been throwing them to miss, or throwing them at a woman.

One who was important to him.

Who challenged him.

Who infuriated him.

Who made him want her.

Lord knew he had already done her enough damage for one day.

Her eye patch had been discarded onto the table top.

The sight of it avoided as he brooded guiltily.

He examined her face from afar, assessing her for evidence of his clumsiness.

Beneath the trailing edge of the silver around her left eye there was a clear swipe of angry red that was no cosmetic, and beneath that no doubt the beginning shadows of a pretty healthy shiner.

"I'm sorry about your eye, Bones."

His voice came out in a husk.

She finally lifted her attention from her foot, her left eyelid blinking in slight delay to her right.

She merely shrugged.

Her chest heaving beautifully.

Letting her foot drop against her thigh.

She looked exhausted.

Must be to be out of words.

He poured a shot of the liquor into a mug, nudged it across the table top towards her.

A peace offering.

Poured his own measure, into a cup which looked stolen from a fast food joint.

He cleared his throat to speak again.

But there was nothing more to say.

They lifted their challises.

She didn't smile.

Merely met his gaze and held it as they collided.

Clinked cheap china with cheap plastic.

Eyes communicating so much effortlessly as only they could.

Then drank.

The liquor burn searing his throat.

She spluttered, nose wrinkling.

Delightful.

A flash of her drinking tequila with him made his brain stumble; made him lose his train of thought as he drowned momentarily in the recall of their salt-tang kiss in a rainstorm.

But he said nothing.

Merely poured her a second.

There was red lipstick on her mug.

Then refilled his own.

The second shot, technically, perhaps worryingly, his fifth, went down more easily.

Another softer sigh slipped from her lips, and he watched as she relaxed her legs, feet coming to rest on his side of the table.

Tiny feet. That had performed almost magical feats tonight on the high-wire.

Limbs so long that she could not straighten them in such close quarters, but some relief sought she lent backwards to rest her head against the trailer wall, letting her eyes drift closed.

Her cheeks were dewy and flushed, the delicate pink highlighting the rise of her zygomatic bones.

His gaze slid downwards over her, knowing the alcohol descending through him would be spreading a mirroring heat through her.

Relaxing their muscles and tired minds.

Making limbs heavier and heart lighter.

The thrill and adrenaline of their day having ebbed.

She only opened one eye, her good one, he realised with guilt, when he nudged another shot towards her.

She watched him.

With one dark midnight blue iris.

Her breathing had slowed.

Her fingers weakly brought the mug to her lips, tossed back the next without even lifting her head from the wall.

The burning liquid had no visible effect this time.

He rested his head in his hands, elbows against the Formica.

Enviously watching the languorous effortlessness of her repose.

Rubbed his fingers over his upper lip which still held traces of whatever kind of eyelash glue the store had given him to affix the rat like moustache, scrabbly little bits caught in the scratchy stubble of his own emerging facial hair.

They needed to sleep.

Her eyes had closed again.

Her head lolled on her shoulders and he knew he had to move her before she slid and hurt herself on the table or the wall.

He staggered to his feet, feeling the unsteady motion of the trailer, uncertain if his intoxication wasn't playing a part.

"Come on, Bones." He murmured to her, slipping an arm under her shoulders to bring her to her feet.

She was a warm, trusting weight against his side.

The scent of her filling his senses.

The tang of bourbon, the musk of her sweet sweat.

Her skin, so soft, and heated.

She was too delirious to notice the visible betraying need of his body.

"I can do it, Booth," her sleepy voice slurred.

He doubted that very much.

Her legs wobbled like a vulnerable doe as he guided her away from the tangling legs of the table and they managed the two or three steps to the bed.

She sank down, sighing again, curling herself over onto her side.

Unconscious movements to settle and find restfulness.

Breasts pressed enticingly together inside the restrictive outfit.

He slid his hand out from beneath her.

The heat of her lingering on his skin.

One bed, what was the FBI field team thinking?

Even Cam, via webcam had noticed.

He took a wary step back, not looking forward to a night in the uncomfortable chair, but the dictates of alcohol, precious friendship and undress seemed to demand it.

But much to his surprise, Temperance Brennan, it seemed did not.

Her quiet husky stumble over his name, drew him closer, so close his breath stirred the strands hair which had freed their restraints.

"Bed, Booth." She sounded so much more like Katherine Hepburn right now than her earlier imitation.

Her eyes remained closed.

Her lips softly parted.

She reached out, her small hand landing haphazardly against his where he leant on the tired mattress, encouraging him towards her with a weak stroke of her fingertips.

"I'll sleep out here," he told her softly.

"No, Booth."

Her mouth caressed his name.

Barely conscious.

Sinfully sexual.

Long limbs, soft skin, enticing him in.

Giving him permission.

Who was he to refuse her?

TBC...


End file.
